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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29620173">Some Live Like Orpheus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumpy_space_princess/pseuds/lumpy_space_princess'>lumpy_space_princess</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Some Live Like Orpheus [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Michael in the Empty (Supernatural), Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Rated T for swearing, The first 2/3 of this is just Adam having a bad time, but it all works out in the end, but seriously so much angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:47:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29620173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumpy_space_princess/pseuds/lumpy_space_princess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the only questions that matter: How far would you go, for a second chance? What would you give? </p><p> Forty days after the world ended around him, Adam gets the opportunity to answer.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael/Adam Milligan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Some Live Like Orpheus [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2223621</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Some Live Like Orpheus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the fortieth morning of his born-again life, Adam wakes screaming. </p><p>Sheets drenched in sweat tangle around his legs as he struggles to reorient to consciousness. The weight of silence in his head bears down, oozes outward into the room around him, and it chokes off the air in his throat. His heart beats wild staccato variations, and his blood runs cold. </p><p>The tattered fragments of dream bleed away slowly, so slowly. </p><p>
  <em>His eyes, in his face. Identical to the last detail, save for the one who wore them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>How long since you looked in a mirror? Since the last time your own reflection didn't leave you shaking sick? </em>
</p><p>He winds fists in thin bedding. Focuses on getting control of his breathing. In. Out. Pause. In. Out. </p><p>When the dizziness passes, he sits. Swings his legs off the bed. The alarm clock glows dim red menace: his shift at the diner starts in an hour. He can't be late again, not if he wants to keep this gig. The thought of dragging himself out into the winter cold slithers along his spine and curls heavy in the pit of his stomach, and leaves him numb. </p><p>
  <em>This is what you wanted, right? Some kind of a 'little job?' Something to pass the time, keep food in your belly and a roof over your head? </em>
</p><p>Not like this. Not like this. </p><p>--------------------</p><p>They hadn't even bothered to come searching for him. Why this should surprise him, Adam didn't know. Somehow he'd imagined their apologies might have contained a grain of real remorse, more fool he. Instead, when he'd blinked back to life on a beach in the ass end of nowhere, there were only fading footprints and the abandoned remnants of recent magic. He was alone.</p><p>What should have been a warm weight behind his sternum instead felt an echoing canyon, abyssal, empty. The <em>lack</em> of it dropped him to hands and knees. He had grasped inward, and then, finding nothing but hollow ache, lashed awareness out into the world. Implored silent prayers, lips framing words he couldn't draw enough air to speak aloud. </p><p>He didn't know how long he knelt there, time long ago having ceased to wield any sense of imperative force. But as darkness unfurled from under the trees, it became harder to ignore the shivers running through him, from hunger and from evening chill. His body barely recognized the sensations - it had been so long. He had almost forgotten what it was to be hungry. To be cold. </p><p>Without making the conscious decision to do so, he stood, and staggered toward the road. </p><p>--------------------</p><p>Most of the time, he sleeps, tucked away in his drafty loft. He had found it via a ratty printout stapled to a telephone pole. <em>Room for rent, cash up front, no questions asked</em>. Tear a number. He'd been desperate. </p><p>He is awake enough of the time to work, at least, to shower and eat and walk the three blocks to the hole-in-the-wall diner that pays him under the table to wash dishes and scrub counters. He shows up, follows directions, gets paid, and gets out. Doesn't talk to the line cooks or wisecrack with the regulars. Social graces feel like the vestments of a different species, and they hang poorly on his frame; he is the wrong shape for them, now. </p><p>Coming home, the pull of sleep drags over him before he even makes it to his door, limbs filling with sand as he lurches up rickety stairs to fumble with his keys. He toes off shoes and drops into bed, and more days than not, doesn't get out again. </p><p><em>What do you have to stay awake for, anyway? No one around to notice you sleeping your life away.</em> </p><p>He hadn't needed to sleep, before he - well, <em>before</em>. It was one of those things, like eating or breathing, that he did for the sake of familiarity - even if it didn't work quite like it used to, back when all he had been was human. But these days, it seems a battle to keep his eyes open at all. </p><p>It is the dreams, more than anything, that get under his skin.</p><p>For the first few weeks, there had been no dreams at all. Perhaps his mind hadn't remembered how. Eventually they did return, not gradual but all at once: confused visions screeching up from his subconscious to brand themselves behind his eyelids, jolt him awake into the witching-hour stillness with a surge of adrenaline and the taste of fear bitter at the back of his throat. </p><p>He hates that his first instinct, in these moments, is still to reach for what he knows isn't there. He fumbles thought toward that empty place inside him, the place that for so long had held - </p><p>- Adam still can't stand to think his name. </p><p>--------------------</p><p>Loathe as he was to admit it, he had known who he needed to find. The Winchesters would have information he needed, answers to which he was entitled, and he was determined to get them. <em>How</em> to contact them was another matter. He had no phone number to call, knew of no one who might have been able to tell him, and though he was certain he could find the bunker again, he was on foot and penniless. Focusing on the problem as he walked helped stave off the spreading numbness. </p><p>The dirt road away from the lake merged with a county highway, and he flagged a passing van. The driver, a leathery, chain-smoking woman with one foot in the grave herself, gave clipped answers to his questions and was otherwise mercifully uninterested in making conversation. In the first good news of this fresh lifetime, Lebanon wasn't out of her way; with luck, he could make it by morning. </p><p>His eyes furrow into a frown at that. <em>With luck</em>. Luck was something that happened to other people. </p><p>The night rolled past his window for hours. He stared out into it, unseeing, and made purposeful effort to think of nothing at all. The road rushed up to vanish under the wheels, and every mile they left behind felt like another grain of salt in a wound he didn't understand. </p><p>They reached the outskirts of town in the small hours of the night, Adam departing his taciturn traveling companion on the unmarked shoulder of the road. He grunted thanks, and the van pulled away, swallowed by the darkness. Still several miles' walk to reach the bunker, but memory was a compass that pulled at his bones. </p><p>His sense of time, of forward progress, had been vague, ground passing under his feet in a haze. When next he shook himself to focus, the sun was rising and he faced a cold entryway. </p><p>The answers he needed lay inside.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Forty days of mourning. Forty days of incessant, anguish-stained prayer. </p><p>This day is different, though how he knows, he is uncertain. He can feel it as a sea change, smell it like wildfire smoke on the air; it raises hair on the scruff of his neck and crackles along his scalp. </p><p>Maybe it's fate, finally come to catch up. The apocalypse he once dodged, dropping by for a social call? He imagines demons inviting themselves in for drinks. Something is approaching, something is - </p><p>- here. </p><p>There is a knock at the door. Two quick raps, perfunctory, polite. </p><p>He spares a thought for the strange sight he must make. A towel covers the sole mirror in the apartment; consequently, he no longer shaves. The skin around his eyes feels bruised, after more than a month of malnourishment and far too much fitful slumber. No time to worry about it now. He steels himself. Pulls wide the door. </p><p>A slender young man beams back at him. He <em>waves</em>, of all things, and Adam is struck by a sense of simple, eager friendliness, an almost childlike joy. </p><p>"Hello!" he chirps out. "My name is Jack. May I come in?"</p><p>Adam is motionless, body barring passage inside. "Who are you?" he croaks.</p><p>"Oh!" The man, Jack, replies brightly. "That's right, we never met. Well, I met your body. You weren't in it at the time, sorry about that. I'm a friend of Sam and Dean." He cocks his head, and it's as though the floor drops out from under Adam: the gesture is familiar. It screams <em>angel</em>. </p><p><em>Nope</em>, Adam thinks. <em>Not doing this</em>. He narrows his eyes. "I don't know why you're here, but I want nothing to do with them. Tell them I'm not interested -" He moves to shove the door shut, but Jack stops it with a gentle hand. </p><p>"Please. I'm not here for them. I'm here for you. At least hear me out?" </p><p>He sighs, then shrugs, and steps away from the door. Shuffles back into the room without waiting for Jack to follow. "Do I have a choice? You're running the universe now, right? The Winchesters told me about you. They said you ate Chuck, or something." </p><p>"I didn't eat him, exactly. I absorbed his power. And you always have a choice."</p><p>Adam drops onto his bed, sprawling on his back to inspect the ceiling. "Right. Well, good riddance to Chuck's power. Do us all a favor and don't follow in his footsteps."</p><p>Jack stands in the center of the room, hands folded. The boy strikes Adam as being at ease no matter where he is, what situation he finds himself in. </p><p>
  <em>Probably a useful personality trait to have, if you happen to be God. </em>
</p><p>"I don't intend to. I only want to fix what he left broken. Sam and Dean and Cas taught me a lot about the difference between fault and responsibility, and I'm trying to honor that." Jack shifts, foot to foot. Adam can hear him fidget, though his gaze remains locked upward. "That's what I came to speak to you about, actually. I heard your prayers." </p><p>A wave of nausea roils through him. His eyes clench shut. "Those weren't for you." </p><p>"I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. <em>All of Heaven</em> can hear your prayers. Or, at least, feel them. Angels can't just ignore that kind of pain, not when it's aimed so directly at us. Not when it's <em>about</em> one of us." </p><p>The nausea settles into a weighted mass, leaden in his gut. Bad enough that God himself has taken an interest in Adam. Again. But for every winged asshole left in existence to be tuning in to his grief? </p><p>His face twists into a grimace. "Don't, ok? Just don't go there." </p><p>"But it's important." Jack's voice is quiet, as close to somber as Adam has yet heard. "It's why I came here. About Mi-"</p><p>Adam bolts upright, spine and shoulders rigid, and snarls. "<em>Stop</em>. I told you not to go there." Jack's eyes are wide, startled. In the recesses of his mind Adam wonders for a moment at the life he's lived, that he's become a person both willing and able to startle God. "Don't say his name to me. None of you, not one, ever cared about anything but what he could do for you. He matters so much to you? You could've talked to him while he was alive. Maybe if you'd treated him more like a person and less like a tool, he still would be." </p><p>To his surprise, Jack only nods. When he speaks again, his voice has undercurrents of regret that seem out of place on him, too old for his youthful demeanor. "Fault and responsibility. You're right. And that's what I'm here about. I have a question I want to ask you, but I need to talk to you first." He meets Adam's eyes, and his lips quirk into a half smile. "Will you take a walk with me? We won't be too long. If you don't like what I have to say, I'll bring you back here and that will be that. You never have to see me again. Please?" </p><p>He thinks of the work waiting at the diner. What he'll be giving up. What he might stand to gain. He appraises Jack, wary. "If I do this. If I talk to you. You really promise to leave me alone? No heaven and hell, no apocalypses, no more Winchesters and destiny and insufferable celestial fuckery?" </p><p>Jack grins. "I promise." </p><p>"Fine." He slides off the bed, and grabs his jacket. Shoves feet into his shoes. "Where are we walking?"</p><p>The new God of the universe all but skips across his apartment. Hand on the doorknob, he looks over his shoulder at Adam. "Follow me."</p><p>--------------------</p><p>On any more ordinary day, his front door opened onto a decrepit set of wooden stairs. They should be looking out onto the tiny city greenspace across from Adam's apartment, a handful of park benches and sheltering trees. </p><p>Instead, they pass through into a dingy motel hallway, threadbare beige carpet and flickering fluorescent lights. Jack strides forward, confident, as though this is how doors always work for him: they open onto where he wants to be, physics and geography and the continuity of reality be damned. Adam lets momentum pull him along behind. </p><p>"Come on. We can get where we're going through here." </p><p>"And where is that, anyway?" </p><p>"You'll see," Jack replies. "We have to sort of... come at it sideways." He slides hands into his pockets as he walks, and does not elaborate.</p><p>"All right. Well, you wanted to talk, so let's talk." Adam takes up a loping pace beside him. They pass door after identical door, their voices and footsteps the only sounds in the air-conditioned hush. "You said all of Heaven can hear me praying. Is there any way you can, I dunno, turn that off?" </p><p>"I'm not sure. Probably? I haven't found much I <em>can't</em> do yet, so it seems likely." They come to a tee in the hallway. Jack's head swivels, and after a moment's consideration they turn left. "You don't have anything to be ashamed of. About your prayers, I mean. The devotion and care in them... they're beautiful. Sad. But beautiful." </p><p>The passageway terminates in a bank of elevators. Jack presses the call button, and one of the burnished steel doors rumbles open. The walls inside the small space are mirrored. Adam leans against the handrail and studies his shoes as the elevator climbs upward. </p><p>"Yeah, well, they're also private. So if you can do anything about that, I'd appreciate it." </p><p>"You could just stop praying to him."</p><p>"<em>No</em>." Adam spits the word like a curse, far more forceful than he had intended. He shakes his head, then lifts his eyes to glare at Jack. "He deserves to be remembered." </p><p>Jack hums. "I know Sam and Dean told you about what he did. Even knowing that, you still love him." It isn't phrased as a question, and Jack does not appear to expect a response.</p><p>The elevator slows to a halt, and the door slides back. They step into a service corridor. The walkway runs the length of a tavern. Off to their left, Adam can see swinging doors to what might be a kitchen, the clatter of dishware reverberating off the walls. Ahead to their right the space widens to a bustling dining area. The corridor terminates in a heavy oak door, which appears to lead outside; through the inset glass, Adam sees daylight. He glances behind, but the elevator they'd stepped out of has vanished. Only a stretch of dingy tiled wall remains. </p><p>They pad forward. The staff swirl past them, drinks and food and dishes balanced on trays as they move among the guests, but no one pauses to acknowledge them, and their eyes slide off and away. </p><p>"Can they see us?" </p><p>"No."</p><p>"Why are we here?" </p><p>"Watch," Jack says. He nods, indicating a waitress who carries a tray laden with drinks. As she passes behind a table, one of the guests stands. His shoulder clips the tray, and the glasses crash to the floor. </p><p>As she waves off the man's flustered apologies and rushes away to get a mop, Adam rolls his eyes. "Cute. And this isn't news. I work in a diner, remember? Same thing happens to me twice a week. Is there supposed to be a lesson here? Something about cleaning up other people's messes? Because I gotta say, I'm over it." </p><p>Jack smiles. "Something like that. Come on."</p><p>He turns and heads for the door leading outside. Adam can only follow. </p><p>Their next destination is a long, echoing hallway which branches off into what seem to be laboratories, doors plastered in various posters cautioning against machinery contained within. The air is stale and musty in a way that makes Adam think they might be underground. They pass through another space, and another: backstage of a theatre, behind thick velvet curtains; a breezy skyway which spans a busy road; a deserted bus terminal. </p><p>"What Chuck did to humanity wasn't your fault and it wasn't mine," Jack muses as they walk. "I restored the world, everyone he erased, because you deserve to have real free will. To succeed or fail on your own merits, without anyone in the background pulling at the strings. I'm still working to put things right, because it's my responsibility now." </p><p>"And that's why you didn't..." Adam trails off. "I mean, I know. He made his own choices." </p><p>Jack studies him out of the corners of his eyes. "You say that, but I don't think it's what you really believe." </p><p>Adam scowls. "Get out of my head." </p><p>A laugh. "Sorry. I'm not in your head. Your moods are just easier to... hear, I guess, than most people's? I think it's because you were a vessel for so long. You still have some of his grace in you." </p><p>That thought makes his eyes burn. Adam ignores it, and bites out a response. "Say you're right. Maybe I don't think he made his own choices at all. I knew him for over a thousand years, but that was a blip in his existence, and it was the only time he was ever free to think for himself. So we get out of the Cage, and he finds out he's lost everything that ever mattered to him. That he didn't have anything left he could trust, nothing he could rely on, except maybe one fragile human. And then I -" he breaks off, voice choking. "Anyway. He followed the script Chuck wrote for him, because it was all he had. And Chuck killed him for it." He glares at Jack. "So yeah. I get it. The consequences are on him, his responsibility. But nothing you can say will convince me that it was his fault."</p><p>They halt outside yet another door, matte grey metal that draws heat in like vacuum and leaves a bitter chill in the surrounding air. </p><p>"Thank you for walking this far with me," Jack says. "I know it wasn't the easiest way, but it was necessary. I still have a question for you. I think I already know the answer, but I have to be sure. And I need you to tell the truth, please." </p><p>Adam eyes him warily. "Fine. Get on with it, then." </p><p>Jack fixes his gaze on Adam. </p><p>"Do you forgive him?" </p><p>Adam stares. "Why do you care?"</p><p>Brow furrowed, Jack cocks his head. "Because you're right. It wasn't his fault. But he also hurt you the most. He betrayed you, let you down when it mattered. So I need to know: do you forgive him?" </p><p>The quiet of the hall around them is almost unbearable. His pulse thumps in his ears, and Adam can't hold Jack's gaze. He looks down, shoulders slumping, curling in on himself. </p><p>"I do," he breathes, barely above a whisper. "I forgave him a long time ago. What does it matter? Michael is still dead." </p><p>A hand rests on his shoulder. He looks up into Jack's face to find him - smiling? </p><p>"That's all I needed to know," Jack beams. His expression in that moment is so young, warm beatific innocence that leaves Adam awed and grasping for description.</p><p>Divine, he realizes. His expression is divine. </p><p>"Where there is forgiveness, there is always hope," Jack says. "But I can't take you any further, I'm sorry. You'll have to go where I can't follow."</p><p>Adam looks at the looming door. Comprehension dawns. "You mean - behind there, that's -?" </p><p>Jack nods. "The Empty, yes. The path we took got us this far concealed, but once you're in there it won't be long before the Shadow finds you, and when it does it'll throw you out." He puts out a hand, presses something marblelike and heavy into Adam's palm. It is smooth, glassy, and light flows slick and oily across the surface. "Take this. Give it to the Shadow. It might help." </p><p>Adam turns toward the door. Takes a deep breath. "How do I find him?" </p><p>Jack steps away, retreating down the hall. "Reach for him. You're still connected. He'll probably be the only thing you <em>can</em> find in there." Jack shoots a parting smile over his shoulder. "Good luck." </p><p>Adam sets his shoulders. Reaches out to the handle, icy metal sticking to his fingers. Pushes.</p><p>He steps forward into the abyss.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>After a time, Adam can no longer tell if his eyes are open. </p><p>Having them open, he has discovered, is not meaningfully different from having them shut. There is no light in this place either way; he can't so much as see a hand in front of his face, and straining to do so has only succeeded in giving him a headache. It also makes walking difficult. No matter where he steps, the floor manages to be right where he thinks it should be, but only if he doesn't think <em>too</em> hard about it. Otherwise, his heels catch on half-manifested surfaces, and he stumbles. </p><p>
  <em>Great job. Still tripping over your own feet even when the ground isn't real. </em>
</p><p>Despite a lack of cardinal directions in this place, no sense of gravity, the course he walks gives the impression of descent. </p><p>He knows where he needs to go, although he avoids thinking about <em>how</em> he knows. Thinking feels too much like hoping, feels too much like maybe - <em>no, can't think about that right now</em>. Bit by bit, though, the hollow place under his sternum is losing the ache that had lingered these past weeks, replaced by a nameless coalescing tug. </p><p>Adam wonders at the purpose of this place, the fathomless depths and haunted ringing silences. It doesn't seem a fitting resting place for angels. Demons, perhaps, but in his (admittedly limited, apart from the obvious exception) experience with angels, they had been creatures of light. To consign them here for eternity seems an exceptional cruelty, even allowing that the standard by which the cruelty was measured was Chuck and his designs.</p><p>The light behind his ribs grows by the moment, nurtures his determination and drags him on. </p><p>At last, an image looms up out of the darkness. The shock of being able to see something, <em>anything</em>, momentarily jolts him into stillness. He takes it in, at a loss. </p><p>Someone or something has crafted a facsimile of his childhood home.</p><p>
  <em>Remember every joke you ever told about Windom being hell? Well, joke's on you. </em>
</p><p>The front door is unlocked. He lets himself in. </p><p>The sense of familiarity that overtakes him leaves him breathless. The reproduction is imperfect; this is a memory of a memory, obviously created by someone who had never inhabited the modeled space. But it is a construct of emotion rather than matter, and what it lacks in physical detail, it makes up in pathos. Adam trails fingertips along the walls, a table, and he can feel the love and loss woven through. </p><p>The pull in his chest is undeniable, but he no longer needs it as a guide. There is only one place in this house he would be. Adam silently ascends the stairs. </p><p>He feels as though he is dreamwalking, the half dozen steps along the hallway spanning into an almost unendurable distance. Farther than the paths he has tread to get here, longer than forty days of despair. Placing one foot in front of the other wrings the energy from him, the effort akin to wading through molasses. But that light in his ribs burns, and pulls, and then finally, <em>finally</em> he stands in front of one last door. His bedroom. </p><p>Hands shaking, he twists the doorknob, and crosses the threshold. </p><p>--------------------</p><p>There is a figure curled tight in the corner of his bed. Pressed against the wall, as small as it can go. Icy shock washes over his skin, and the breath catches in his throat. When it comes, his voice is a strangled squeak.</p><p>"Michael?"</p><p>The figure is unmoving, eyes and face hidden under his arms. Adam takes a hesitant step closer. "Is that - is this real? Are you - I mean, are you <em>you</em>?"</p><p>The angel doesn't look up, barely acknowledges him at all. "This again? Go away, Shadow. I'm not in the mood." </p><p>Frantic laughter threatens to crawl up his throat. He chokes it back. </p><p>Shadow? <em>He thinks you're a hallucination. Not real.</em></p><p>"Michael, it's me. I came here to find you." </p><p>"I said<em> go away</em>. I won't give in. What do you get out of this game? Leave me to do penance in peace. It will surely be more pleasant for us both." </p><p>Adam sits on the corner of the bed, movements cautious and deliberate. He is unsure where to go from here; this is all too surreal. This house, this place, Michael within arm's reach again, so close after all this time. His mind is spinning. It feels like he's trying not to spook a wild animal, like Michael might turn and attack at his first misstep. </p><p>"I'm not the Shadow. I'm really here. Please, we don't have much time." He reaches out, tentative. Lays a hand across Michael's arm. </p><p>The effect is instantaneous. Michael bolts upright, pressed back into the corner as far as he can, and stares at Adam with wide eyes. Adam rears back, timid. </p><p>"I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."</p><p>His own face (<em>but not exactly, is it? He never did wear it quite the same</em>) glares back at him, drawn and pale. It has been so long since Adam saw that face. </p><p>"What fresh trick is this? You don't touch me. You <em>can't</em> touch me." He shakes his head. "I must be losing my mind at last." </p><p>"It's not a trick. I told you. It's me, Adam. Michael, I came to get you out of here."</p><p>"No," he shakes his head again, more violently now. "No, no. You can't be, you aren't real. Stop this torment. Just leave me be." His voice breaks over the last words. "Please. Just leave me alone." </p><p>"How can I convince you?" Adam whispers. "Can't you feel it? You're here, part of you is still <em>right here</em>." He splays a palm across his sternum. "It led me to you." </p><p>Michael bites his lower lip, worrying it between teeth. One hand starts to drift upward, a gesture aborted halfway through. "He wouldn't," he mutters to himself. "It's an illusion, he couldn't, you can't be here." </p><p>"Why not? Why can't I be?" </p><p>"Because I don't deserve it!" he wails. He slumps forward off the wall, head falling into his hands, and Adam pulls back in the face of his sudden anguish. "I made you a promise, and I failed you. I betrayed you. There is no forgiveness for what I've done." </p><p>Adam leans forward. Slowly, delicately, he slides his palm over the back of Michael's hand. Twists until their fingers lace together. Michael watches the movement, transfixed. </p><p>"That isn't your decision to make. If you want to wallow in misery, then I guess I can't stop you. But -" He looks up, and Michael meets his eyes at last. He pulls Michael's palm flat against his chest. "- I understand why you did it, and I forgive you. Whether you want it or not. Because it's my choice to make." </p><p>Something is crumbling behind Michael's eyes. He looks down at the place where his hand meets Adam's body, awed. Adam feels a pull under his ribs. The remnants of Michael's grace, reaching out to their owner. </p><p>His voice is small, so quiet Adam has to strain to hear him. "Adam?" </p><p>"Hey," he smiles back, and ferocious joy bubbles up in him until he wants to shout himself hoarse with it, wants to sing out. </p><p>An oily black voice oozes through the room, petulant. "Well, well. Isn't this a touching little reunion?" </p><p>--------------------</p><p>The face staring down at them is yet another iteration of Adam's own. As with Michael, it would be impossible to mistake it for being worn by Adam. The difference is that the being who wears it now exudes hatred through every twitch of muscle, every quirk of lips and flash of irises. Adam had not known his own features were capable of expressing so much spite. </p><p>"I knew I felt a scratching under the floorboards," the entity sneers. "A little bat in my belfry, yes, a miserable little <em>termite</em> in my walls. And here you are, little termite. Carrying on with the wretch who refuses to accept his fate like the good little soldier he was supposed to be. This isn't your place, human. <em>Get out</em>." </p><p>Adam stands, maneuvering his body on instinct between Michael and his wrathful double. His posture blazes defiance. "No. I came for him. I'm not leaving without him." </p><p>"What makes you think you have a choice?" the Shadow spits. "I could throw you out on your ear in an instant. This is my domain, and you're nothing but an unwelcome houseguest. You have one chance: slake my curiosity. What possible hand could you have to play, little termite? What ace up your sleeve?" </p><p>He slips one hand into his pocket. Holds out the shimmering marble. "Jack gave me this. It's for you."</p><p>The Shadow plucks it from his hand, and inspects it with distaste. "How quaint. You have friends in high places, I give you that. Do you know what this is?" Adam shakes his head, mute. "Of course you don't, pitiable mortal. No concept even of the value of what you've been carrying." The snarling entity holds the orb on fingertips, studying it intently, before it vanishes into the ether. It turns its gaze back to Adam. </p><p>"A petition," it growls out. "Supplication on your behalf, and on behalf of the useless worm behind you. A request for favor from the new God himself." The Shadow rounds on Michael, appraising him down the bridge of its nose. "What could he possibly be worth to you, that you saw fit to risk my wrath? What would you give me for him?" </p><p>Without taking his eyes off his opponent, Adam reaches one hand behind him. Feels Michael grasping back, and something settles inside him. "Anything. Everything. I'll give you whatever you want, because that's what he's worth." He shudders out a deep exhale. "My soul, if you want it. Name your price." </p><p>The Shadow chuckles, dark and crackling. "What would I do with a human soul? You couldn't stay here even willing. This isn't your place, creature. No, the only thing I want is his misery, for having the gall to be one of the things keeping me awake. And I already have that." It waves a hand, dismissive. "You have nothing I want." </p><p>Adam's mind races. What if the creature was right? He had nothing with which to bargain. The entity did not want his soul, had no use for his life. All it wants is pain, pain and - </p><p>A sly smile crawls across Adam's face.</p><p>"But I do. I know what you crave."</p><p>The Shadow's brow furrows. "And what would that be, insect?" </p><p>"What you want, what you <em>need</em>, is sleep." Adam shrugs. "I never want to sleep again. Take that from me." </p><p>Michael's hand tightens in his, whether in shock or warning, Adam isn't sure. </p><p>The entity crosses its arms, and circles around him. There is a cold, considering glint in its eyes. </p><p>"Interesting proposition," it mutters. "All the sleep you'll ever have. Sure you can let it go? Think carefully, now. Humans can't live that way, little termite. Are you so sure this one won't abandon you again? It's a bad death for your kind. That's a lot of trust, to place in someone who already failed you once." </p><p>Adam growls. "I just said I'd trade my life for his. Don't you people ever listen?" He raises an eyebrow. "So do we have a deal?"</p><p>The Shadow looks back at him, and Adam feels the blood drain from his face. The entity smiles, but it is like no smile Adam has ever seen. An awful, creeping rictus of muscles and glint of teeth. Adam shudders, but holds its gaze. </p><p>"Very well," it purrs. "A trade, and a price. Your final test then, creature. One last hurdle to cross."</p><p>"Fine. Just get it over with."</p><p>It giggles madly. "How far does your trust in him go? That he'll tie himself to you in turn? Turn and walk out of my domain the way you came. Eyes straight ahead, and keep that faith shining bright. No faltering, little termite, and no looking back the way you came. Because I'll know, oh yes. That shining faith wavers for even an instant?" The creature is in his space, sharp eyes and sharper teeth. "I'll <em>know</em>. I'll take your sleep and I'll take your lover, and you'll have cause every moment of the rest of your short, painful life to regret the day you challenged me." </p><p>Adam smiles. </p><p>"Done." </p><p>Michael's hand falls away behind him, and he is suddenly alone in the room. He straightens his back, sets his eyes high, and departs.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>The way out is brutal. </p><p>Echoes assault him from all directions, and the nonexistent ground snags and catches at his feet. He stumbles again and again, but again and again he rights himself; he refuses to fall. Tendrils of inky darkness lash at his skin. They leave cuts that trail blood along his arms, over his cheeks and forehead. It drips into his eyes, but his gaze is fixed upward, unwavering.</p><p><em>You can do this</em>. He feels the warmth under his ribs glowing like a sun. <em>He'll be there. Almost home</em>.</p><p>A light ahead. Adam squints against it. After the eternal night of this place, he almost doesn't trust that it is real. </p><p>Voices whisper through his head, intensity a crescendo as he nears the door. The last efforts of his captor to drag him down. </p><p>
  <em>All for nothing, you did this all for nothing, he abandoned you now just like before - </em>
</p><p>Adam ignores them. </p><p>Five steps forward, and they'll both be free. </p><p>Four. His feet stutter, caught on another unseen bramble. He straightens his spine. </p><p>Three. Unblinking now; the light is scorching his corneas. </p><p>Two. </p><p>One. </p><p>He pitches facefirst into daylight. </p><p>--------------------</p><p>When he comes to, he lays on his back in the grass. A breeze stirs leaves above him, ruffles his hair. His eyes are clenched tightly shut, and for a moment he is paralyzed, held in place by a spike of fear. That it was all another fever dream. That when he looks around, he might once again be alone. </p><p>Only that's not right. Because in the space over his heart, shining in his mind and curling warm around his soul, is a light like the dawn of Creation. </p><p>
  <em>Michael? Please say something, please, anything. Please.</em>
</p><p>A hand slides into his, fingers twining together. </p><p>Slow, achingly slow, he turns his head. Cracks his eyes open. Finds his own face staring back at him from inches away. </p><p>A thousand words stick behind his eyes. They pile up on top of each other, jammed together in his throat, and what actually comes out is a strangled sigh. Then they're laughing, both of them sobbing and giggling all at once.</p><p>Adam launches himself at Michael, tumbling together on the grass. He crushes them into a hug like he could force him to sink through his skin. As though Michael were truly separate, not curled so tightly around his soul that he can feel them already beginning to blend together, like they'd never been apart at all. </p><p>Michael runs one hand along his jaw. Adam thinks, distantly, that he could look at him like this for the rest of his life. "Thank you," he whispers, and shudders against Adam's skin. </p><p>Adam grins back. "Don't ever do that again." </p><p>Michael laughs, and the sound lifts through Adam like wingbeats. "I promise." </p><p>"We have a lot to talk about," Adam says. He looks around, for the first time taking stock of where they are. The park outside his loft. Adam turns his gaze back to Michael, and tugs them both to their feet. </p><p>"Come on," He pulls Michael into another embrace, and they cling to each other for a moment. Then he turns, and leads Michael by the hand, up the stairs and inside. </p><p>Home and together at last. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments and kudos spark joy :3 Thanks for reading!</p><p>(This fic was inspired by two things, one of which was undoubtedly obvious upon reading it, but the other may be less so. Therefore, credit where credit is due: namely, to Ray Bradbury, for the timeless story <em> Some Live Like Lazarus</em>)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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